


there are no winners

by iceblinks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, post-shiratorizawa vs karasuno, s3 ep10 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25026541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblinks/pseuds/iceblinks
Summary: “Do you hate me?”They haven’t talked since Saturday. Since they lost, 2-3, to a fallen school that had since risen from its ashes. Shirabu had left immediately after the closing ceremony, and Eita hadn’t followed him.“I think you should come in,” Eita says.
Relationships: Semi Eita/Shirabu Kenjirou
Comments: 13
Kudos: 182





	there are no winners

“Do you hate me?” 

It is a Tuesday. Raindrops splatter diagonally across Eita’s window, trajectory altered by the blustering winds. The rains have come late this year, beating down in relentless waves and flooding the streets end-to-end. Class was canceled today; practice was not. His right arm aches. 

Shirabu stands in the doorway of Eita’s dormitory, fists clenched tightly at his sides. Artificial light spills in; it catches on the uncovered window and reflects back into the hallway. Shirabu’s shadow precedes him, stretching five meters into the dark recesses of Eita’s room. 

It is very nearly silent. There is only: the steady drum of rain against thin glass. The buzz of a flickering hall light two doors away. The mattress squeaking as Eita pushes himself upright. 

They haven’t talked since Saturday. Since they lost, 2-3, to a fallen school that had since risen from its ashes. Shirabu had left immediately after the closing ceremony, and Eita hadn’t followed him. 

“I think you should come in,” Eita says.

* * *

Eita’s dorm is darker, now. The sun has long since set. His roommate will not be back tonight—he’s home for a week to visit his ailing grandfather. Shirabu sits beside him, back to the wall, fists clenching around Eita’s turquoise sheets. They have been sitting here in this manner for at least fifteen minutes. Shirabu is, for once, perfectly still. 

It doesn’t suit him. Shirabu is always in motion, constantly seeking improvement and advancement. He is synonymous with movement. He taps his feet wherever he’s sitting down, knees bouncing up and down until someone quite literally slaps him out of it. Unconscious acts like these form the basis of him as a person, and so Eita finds it unsettling that Shirabu is staring straight ahead, sitting stock-still. 

“Why do you think I would hate you?” Eita asks. His voice is raspy with disuse. He has talked sparingly since Sunday. He had screamed into his pillow on Saturday night until his throat was raw and Tendou had texted him that _we can hear you through the wall semisemi go to bed it’s like 1 am._ On Monday he had answered a question aloud in his math class. He has not spoken since until Shirabu came knocking.

Shirabu does not move, posture still ruler-straight. His bangs have fallen into his eyes. 

“Shirabu,” Eita presses. He clears his throat. “You wanna walk me through the reasoning behind that?” 

Eita glances over at him. His side profile is striking in the evening light, silhouetted against the window. The rain patters against the windowpane, droplets scattering with every new gust of wind. Shirabu presses his lips together.

“Shirabu,” Eita says. “Hey. Kenjirou.” 

Shirabu starts a little at the use of his first name. He turns to Eita, and it’s dark, but not so dark that Eita can’t see his eyes, glassy with unshed tears. 

“I fucked up,” Shirabu says, and he sounds downright _miserable._ “I know you said to pass to Ushijima-san, and I _was,_ but that last one—you saw it, you saw _him,_ I don’t know what I was thinking when I—“

“You did the same thing I would’ve done,” Eita says quickly. Shirabu looks a half-second away from completely losing it. His eyes are wild. “You did the right thing.”

“But I didn’t, did I?” Shirabu’s voice cracks halfway through a laugh and it sounds awful, broken, inhuman. “And we lost because of that. I fucked us over because of a bad judgment call, and the third years are paying the price for it. Ushijima-san barely got scouted, I may well have just screwed up his whole career—“ He’s crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks. The moon is rising behind him, and the light catches on him. “And what about you, Semi-san? It’s my fault you couldn’t go to Nationals as a third year, and you weren’t even on the starting lineup for your final match. I’m—I’m really sorry.” 

Shirabu pulls the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and uses it to wipe at his eyes and Eita watches, shocked. 

“Hey, Shirabu, when did you start caring so much about the rest of us, huh?” He says, smiling softly. 

Shirabu glares at him over his sleeve, then rubs at his eyes again. 

“You know I don’t hate you,” Eita says, tipping his head back against the wall. He’s been slouching, slowly sliding further and further towards the edge of the bed. “You piss me off, for sure, but I don’t hate you. You do know that, right?” 

Shirabu wipes at his nose and gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’d hope so.” 

“And hey.” Eita pokes Shirabu in the thigh, hard enough that he flinches a little. “Cut it out with the second string bullshit. I’m past it, okay? I’m only gonna say this once, but Washijou knew what he was doing. You deserved that position and you fought like hell to get it, so don’t act all ungrateful now. If it was better for the team for me to be a reserve, then I’m okay with it.” 

This is a half-truth. He knows that, logically, his being second string was the right choice for the team. But that hadn’t stopped him from beating himself up about it, for complaining to Tendou late at night about how unfair it all is, for practicing and practicing and practicing in vain hopes that Washijou would see his improvement and make him a starter again, if just for one match. 

But really, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. Shirabu had performed admirably, refused (for the most part) to quake under pressure, and played to the best of his ability. Eita tells him this, watches his eyes fill again. He has never seen Shirabu cry before, but it seems that once he starts, it becomes difficult for him to stop. His sleeves must be soaked by now. 

Moonlight streams through Eita’s windows, casting long shadows over his and his roommate’s desks. There is a pile of homework due tomorrow sitting innocently on his; he doubts he’ll finish it. Not when Shirabu is beside him like this, open and vulnerable in a way Eita has never seen before. He’s finally relaxed his posture, sinking back into the wall like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

Eita reaches up, slowly, and brushes Shirabu’s bangs out of his eyes. His hair is soft, ruler-straight, slipping easily through Eita’s fingers. It falls back into Shirabu’s eyes almost immediately. 

“You need a haircut,” Eita says, and Shirabu meets his gaze, wide-eyed. “How’d you even play like this?” 

“Don’t really notice it,” Shirabu mumbles. His voice is still somewhat shaky, but his breaths have evened out. He is beautiful like this, with his lashes still heavy with tears and his lips parted as he exhales gently into the night. 

Eita lets his hand fall slowly from Shirabu’s hair to come up around the side of his face, cupping it gently. He lets his thumb swipe slowly under Shirabu’s eyes, wiping away the last of his tears. Shirabu’s breath hitches. Eita feels it against his palm. 

“Hey, Shirabu,” he says quietly, almost whispering. “You didn’t ruin anyone’s life on Saturday. Wakatoshi-kun’s been All-Japan for years, and the guys gunning for scholarships definitely got them. Saturday wasn’t your fault, okay?” 

“What about you, Semi-san?” Shirabu says. His lips are parted, and his gaze never leaves Eita’s. They’re close, so close, and Eita’s hand curls slightly around his chin, pulling him ever-so-slightly closer. “What are you going to do?” 

“I’m gonna be okay,” Eita says, and it’s not a lie. He’s eighteen, doesn’t yet know what to do with his whole life stretching out ahead of him. What he knows is this: he loves volleyball in the same way he loves music, and art, and slightly overdone rice. There is enough room to add a person, with all his cracks and flaws, to the list. It is exactly as simple as it sounds. He will be okay.

“Are you sure?” Shirabu breathes. Eita catches the double meaning. They are breathing in the same air, and Shirabu’s bangs brush against his eyelashes as his eyes flit downwards. 

Eita tips his chin, just slightly. He’s always sure. Maybe that’s the problem, sometimes, but right now he means for his confidence to be reassuring and not overbearing. Ego has no place in this, and with that in mind, he leans in.

Shirabu’s lips are dry and chapped against his own. Something is ending, here, the passing of a torch from one generation to another. But something else begins in its wake, roars to life in the liminal spaces between them. Eita’s arms come up around Shirabu’s neck, dragging them both down onto his wrinkled sheets. Shirabu kisses him so slowly, so carefully, a stark contrast to his usual attitude around Eita. He kisses him through the fierce gusts of wind that rattle the window panes, through the rain as it fades in and out. 

“Semi-san,” he says softly against Eita’s lips, and Eita whispers back, _“Kenjirou,”_ and how could Shirabu possibly think Eita could ever hate him? 

The wind howls wildly outside, tearing branches from trees and sweeping liters of rainfall into storm drains. Shirabu’s arms frame Eita’s face as he kisses him through it. He is cautious and so, _so_ gentle, and his fingers curl and uncurl sporadically against Eita’s. His eyes are closed; Eita’s are not. Eita watches his eyelids flutter, long eyelashes brushing against flushed skin. His free hand comes up to brush Shirabu’s hair out of his eyes and Shirabu pulls slowly away from his lips. 

They stay like this for a long moment, Shirabu hovering above him. Watching each other. Shirabu lets go of his hand, and his fingers stray to Eita’s hair, brushing gently through thin strands. 

The rain slows. Eita can hear the rush of an overfilled storm drain across the street. Shirabu is still looking at him, considering. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, and his brow is smooth and unfurrowed. His lower lip is caught ever so slightly between his teeth. 

“We’re gonna be okay, Kenjirou,” Eita says. He reaches for Shirabu, pulling him to his chest. Shirabu’s hand stills against his hair and Eita can feel him smile into his shirt and it’s such a tiny, insignificant thing, but he knows, then: Shirabu has never doubted him for a second. It’s why he came to him instead of Tendou or Reon or any other third-year. Shirabu trusts Eita to keep the team in motion while he’s on the bench, and with this simple act, he has drawn Eita into his orbit of fluidity and movement. This trust is not new, far from it; but in this light, in this time, he realizes the full weight of it. Shirabu has given himself over to him in the purest possible form, and Eita loves him, maybe. 

“Yeah,” Shirabu says, and his voice is soft. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i can only write at four in the morning now. i kinda fell down the shirasemi rabbit hole the other day so...now this exists


End file.
